Soundproof
by trufflemores
Summary: 1.11. Barry's line of work is brutal sometimes.


Seventy-five seconds.

That's how long Hartley's devices are active at Barry's frequency.

One minute and fifteen seconds.

Objectively, it isn't a long time. People have endured unspeakable pain for far greater periods, pain that goes beyond Barry's comprehension. Even so, Barry can't think of a comparative experience to describe what it's like to be torn apart. A brutal conclusion asserts comes to mind: he would subject himself to almost _any_ other torture before he would endure another second of sonic dismemberment.

Barry has a moment of clarity in the aftermath, breathing harshly on the concrete. There's a process called _spaghettification_ : it's what theoretically happens to an object pulled into a black hole. As it approaches, it becomes _elongated_ and _compressed_ , eventually overextended to such a point that the very fibers of the object can no longer hold it together and it snaps in half. It's not the same as having sound waves tear apart your organs – but it's a similarly discomforting, agonizing experience.

One which you would, until the bitter end, be conscious for.

Seventy-five seconds of being un-rendered, of being un-made isn't a long time, but it feels like forever.

Yet the relief at escaping that spiraling vortex of death and being able to _breathe_ again is immediate, intense, and overwhelming. His skin hurts, his head is _screaming_ , and his lungs feel like charcoal, red hot and raw. It takes him fully ten seconds to get his breathing back under control. He should stay down – normal people would be waiting for medical assistance – but he isn't a normal human being and someone has to contain Hartley before he tries to hurt anyone else.

So even though his spine aches and his legs refuse to cooperate, he pushes himself to his feet.

He's struggling to stay on them, breathing thickly, swaying awkwardly as his heart hammers in his chest like it's making up for lost time. His lungs worked fine ninety seconds ago, but now they don't know how to _be_ lungs. They're still rebooting. He's still rebooting.

"Barry," a voice asks, sharp, crisp, except there's a tunnel between them full of white noise and he can't quite hear any of what they're saying. "Can you hear me?"

"Sort of," he says as loudly as he can, his jaw aching. His arms hurt like someone stabbed him repeatedly, and there's a whole world of pain waiting for categorization once the pounding in his head stops distracting him.

Even on his feet, it's difficult to move. His vision isn't quite up to par, either, but somehow he closes the distance between Hartley and him, drawn by his wailing cries more than anything.

Barry looms over Hartley and feels a soft sort of amusement overtake him. _We won._

It doesn't feel like victory, but he manages to not pass out as he falls to his knees, grunts with the impact. "Barry?" someone says, but he can't respond. He's _exhausted_ , every heartbeat takes too much energy, every second feels like he's going to throw up, and he should respond but he has to focus if he's going to get the job done. There are bystanders at the opposite side of the dam approaching, scared but inquisitive and distantly, Barry hears sirens. He has to pull himself together before his identity is compromised.

So he reaches down with arms that feel more like fire than flesh, scoops up Hartley over a shoulder, and Flashes away from the scene.

He makes it to Star Labs and drops Hartley unceremoniously on the floor in the center of the room, startling Caitlin and Cisco out of their seats. Caitlin's fast, catching him under the shoulders as he starts to collapse before he can hit the ground hard, sinking gently down to bruised knees.

"I just need time," he tells her in a low, husky voice, barely able to speak, and he wonders if any sound comes out at all. He can't hear or even see them properly; his whole world is defined by the ringing in his ears, obliterating everything else while his system reboots.

Cisco helps Caitlin lift him up, setting him onto a gurney as gently as they can. He coughs into his sleeve, aware of Cisco's sharp inhale as copper covers his teeth.

Caitlin says something, flashing a light in his eyes, but Barry can't understand her.

"I can't hear you," he tells them, gratefully accepting the slightly damp cloth Cisco presses into his hand, coughing into it instead of his own arm.

It takes a while for the coughing fit to subside. Thankfully, they leave him alone, tending to Hartley instead. Caitlin sedates him and they set to work on his hands and cochlear implants; once they're satisfied, Cisco gets Hartley in a wheelchair and takes him down to the holding facility, hands cuffed – just in case.

Fatigue weighs on him, adding what feels like several hundred pounds of pressure per square inch to his eyelids, but Barry fights it. His throat burns and everything _aches_ , and he's had the flu before and vividly recalls how achy it made him, but this is exponentially worse because even involuntary movements make his nerve endings howl. Still: he doesn't want to sleep. Not yet.

Once he can breathe and see again, Barry watches Caitlin and Cisco confer. Lip-reading has never been his specialty, and he can't hear them from across the room, so he settles for ignorance, trusting their judgment.

At last, with an almighty groan, he stands.

"Whoa, buddy," Cisco says, hurrying over to put a hand on his back, steadying him as he sways. "You sure you're okay to be up?"

"I'm fine," Barry tells him, because at least he can do that much, and then he sucks in a deep breath before Flashing out of his uniform, collapsing fully dressed in Star Labs lounge wear onto the gurney and closing his eyes.

He's already healing fast: the critical wounds are gone, the fracture lines across his body are disappearing, and the fantastic array of bruises is finally fading. His stomach is settling, his jaw aches less profoundly, and nerve endings are slowly quieting.

When Caitlin comes over to hook him up to an IV line, he doesn't flinch. He just closes his eyes and lets the white noise wash over him for a time.

. o .

Waking up is easier.

He's untethered, so he sits up carefully, feeling his own muscles like he can't believe they're _his_. Like an amputee, he remembers where something should be, where _pain_ should be, but it isn't there.

It's gone.

And they got Hartley.

Letting a slow smile cross his lips, he blinks to clear his vision, sitting up.

"Take it slow," Caitlin advises, and he only catches it because she's close, one hand hovering behind his back, ready to catch him if he falls.

Barry sits up, testing his world, his physicality.

He's _okay_.

And they got Hartley.

Grinning, he can't help his own levity when Caitlin asks how he's feeling. "Fine!" Then, amending it because he still can't exactly _hear her_ , he adds, "I mean, there is a little ringing in my ears, but other than that I'm good, so—"

She puts a gentling hand on his arm. "You're speaking _very_ _loudly_ ," she says clearly, amused.

Barry ducks his head. "Sorry."

"It's okay," Caitlin tells him with a small smile, "it'll pass."

He thinks, _I hope it passes soon_.

He doesn't quite catch the conversation between Caitlin and Cisco when the latter returns from the particle accelerator, looking a little worn but triumphant, but he catches the tone. They're happy. They're _relaxed._

Everything is okay.

They leave him, but Dr. Wells remains, looking apologetic.

When he speaks, Barry wishes he could hear him better. He only catches bits of the conversation, implications: " _It's difficult when I'm wrong . . . an entire city, but also – my closest friends. I hope – restore your trust – one day._ "

Barry can't think about the particle accelerator explosion as anything other than a tragic accident. There was a risk, and Dr. Wells _should_ have disclosed that risk, but that was in the past, and you can't change your past. You can only change your future.

Decided, Barry smiles, steps forward, and holds out a hand to shake. "That day was today," he says, feeling a warmth in his chest when Dr. Wells clasps his hand, shakes it.

Not many people look at a nearly insurmountable situation and say, _I can salvage this_.

Dr. Wells is one of those exceptions. And Barry will remember that – remember the fact that Dr. Wells didn't just teach him how to survive, he intervened when Barry needed him most.

Before Dr. Wells can protest it, Barry fishes out a framed photograph of their selfieout of his satchel, handing it to him.

And finally Barry goes _home_.

. o .

Flashing onto the doorstep, Barry pushes it open slowly, feeling a renewed throb under his skin, like pressing a bruise. He'll be okay – even if it takes a few more hours to get there. Stumbling inside, he toes off his shoes and shrugs out of his coat, taking the stairs one at a time.

On trembling muscles, he finally slides into his bed, eyelids shutting and sleep sweeping him away almost immediately.

The last thing he thinks before losing consciousness is, _We won._

. o .

At some point, he's awakened when Joe shakes his shoulder lightly. "Hey, Bar. Nine o'clock. Up and at 'em."

"Mmh," Barry mumbles, turning onto his stomach and burying his face in the pillow. "'m up."

"That doesn't look like up," Joe says, amused, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Long night?"

Barry thinks, _You have no idea_.

"'m up," he says instead, not moving.

"Need a sick day?" Joe asks, rubbing his side.

Barry grunts. The thought of snatching more sleep is _divine_ , but he also has a job to do, and there will definitely be days when he'll need that time more. There will always be a risk in his field; he can only hope that he's fast enough to escape, that his friends are there when he needs them. Knowing that today isn't the day and that he _can_ function on fairly little sleep – even if three hours feels painfully little – Barry shakes his head.

"S'okay," he says at last, emerging from underneath the blankets. Sitting up, he claps Joe on the shoulder and adds, "Thank you, Joe."

"Just take it easy today," Joe advises.

Barry nods, taking his advice to heart once they're at the precinct, sitting out a routine robbery to file more data. It's slow work without super speed, but it's almost more satisfying for it. Sometimes he misses normalcy, mundanity. A world where Hartley Rathaways don't have access to devices capable of destroying him.

 _Chasing bad guys is not your job. It's mine._

Not anymore, Barry thinks ruefully, even if Joe's prior point still stood: _You're not bulletproof_.

He's careful, as careful as he _can_ be in his line of work, but if he has to put himself in the crossfire to ensure that someone doesn't die because a meta-human didn't care about collateral damage, then he's willing to suffer a little.

Seventy-five seconds is a long time for The Flash, fighting for his life.

But it's still the equivalent of just another ordinary minute and fifteen seconds in a quiet day of work for Barry Allen.

He's sore and dissatisfied that he _isn't_ bulletproof or soundproof, but at least he has one major consolation prize.

He's still alive.

And as long as he stays that way, the rest will fall into place.

When he turns in his report at three in the afternoon, Captain Singh looks at it and offers him a rare half-smile. "Good work, Allen." Then, handing him a new box, he adds, "Sort these."

With a soft huff, wondering what Central City would think of him if they knew the man who saved thirty-three lives last night was the same person who sorted papers at the precinct, Barry takes the stack and gets to work.

It doesn't matter what Central City thinks. Ultimately Barry is the one who has to live his life. He has to decide to take the risks. And those, however excruciating, are worth the results.

Thirty-three lives for seventy-five seconds.

For those odds, Barry knows, he would endure anything.


End file.
